


the bend of my hair

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Series: you're human, so am I [10]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anniversary, Eponine is still Mab, F/M, Photo Shoot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eponine lands a modeling gig and is possessive, and Feuilly is a good gift-giver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bend of my hair

**Author's Note:**

> “Now you understand  
> Just why my head's not bowed.  
> I don't shout or jump about  
> Or have to talk real loud.  
> When you see me passing  
> It ought to make you proud.  
> I say,  
> It's in the click of my heels,  
> The bend of my hair,  
> the palm of my hand,  
> The need of my care,  
> 'Cause I'm a woman  
> Phenomenally.  
> Phenomenal woman,  
> That's me.”  
> -Maya Angelou, “Phenomenal Woman”

Eponine spends her life surrounded by beautiful people. Enjolras is a modern God’s impression of a Greek statue. He perfectly embodies the beauty that is possible in masculinity, with delicate features impossibly yet perfectly balanced over a strong jaw, and a narrow body nevertheless layered with muscle. Enjolras has the kind of beauty that leaves other people literally doing double takes in the street, picking their jaws up off the cement as they hurry on their way, embarrassed. It’s probably for the better, though; those who approach, drawn by his beauty, are hit with the full force of the man’s personality. For the general public, Enjolras—physically and mentally—is the type of person best admired from afar. He belongs on a podium, presenting an ideal to follow. To draw too close is to get burned—Grantaire is living proof of that.The fact that Grantaire stays, then, is a testament to Enjolras’s magnetism.

Grantaire has his own brand of attractiveness, an intensity and focus that shines even through the stubble, vodka breath, and paint stains in odd places. It’s the kind of aura that attracts those with baggage and girls rebelling against their daddies, as well as those with a driving need to fix what’s broken. Perhaps that’s why Eponine has never been attracted to him, instead developing a codependent but friendly relationship where they cry about unrequited love. (Sadly, she’s left him in the dust in that department). He wouldn’t have time for such people anyway. Their cynic’s smoldering intensity remains trained on the one thing that resists it—marble and gold, with sapphire eyes.

It’s too bad, too, because Grantaire, when he tries, is gorgeous. He eschews ties, calling them “socially accepted leashes” (an opinion most of the Amis seem to share), but in his green waistcoat—the only reasonable fashion decision Bahorel has ever made—and black button-down, Grantaire is absolutely mouthwatering.

This is said, of course, from a completely-and-happily-taken female’s point of view.

(But really).

The trend towards attractiveness would honestly make a scientist itch to test the water in the Musain. Courfeyrac used to use his floppy dark curls and emerald eyes to full advantage, bringing home men, women, and people outside the gender binary (occasionally all at once). He’s stopped that now because of Jehan, but considering that the poet is gorgeous in himself, all caramel waves and golden freckles dotted over pale skin, matching the gold in grass-green eyes that light up constantly with humor or creativity or revolutionary passion. Added to the martial artist’s body underneath his ridiculous sweaters and skinny jeans, Eponine doubts very much that Courfeyrac feels the loss.

Combeferre has all the unconscious charm of one who does not know how good-looking they actually are. But their gentle giant, with indescribably calm gray eyes and full mouth set in a permanent half-sardonic, half-bemused grin, never has trouble getting a dance partner, even if he’s never quite sure how he did it himself. Marius is scarcely better, the years of university having done good for his rawboned frame--though he remains the lankiest of them--but little for his spastic if loyal personality. He, too, edges more towards adorable than hot, per se, but the attractive base is nonetheless there.

Bossuet, though not Eponine’s type, has a faint exoticism to him, with skin the color of café au lait and thick black lashes. Joly, no slouch himself in the looks department with dark-red hair and his own batch of freckles, is a lucky man—considering that the third in that little group is Musichetta.

Now, if God made people out of words, the word for Musichetta is _sultry_. She’s a Spanish siren, heavy-lidded eyes and full lips and improbably curved body drawing one to her as the razor wit behind her eyes keeps one held fast. To be honest, Eponine is a little bit terrified of Musichetta. Any woman who can hold not one but two men to her is a force to be reckoned with.

Bahorel is just gigantic, in every direction. He’s attractive enough, with his bulging biceps and intimidating pectorals, and gorgeous dreadlocks over skin dark as night--but he’s built a little bit too much like a tank for Eponine’s taste. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble with the ladies, however; she apparently is alone in being unmoved by a man who can bench-press her.

Then, of course, there’s Cosette. Eponine can begrudgingly admit to liking Cosette, now—the torch she’d carried for Marius has long since burned out—but the fact that the girl is actually a woodland elf does not help. With her lacy dresses and silky scarves and white Mary Janes, Cosette should look ridiculous. Instead, she looks ethereal, put-together, and immaculate, every day. Even in her nicest jeans without holes in the knees or paint splatters from helping Grantaire, next to Cosette Eponine feels decidedly grubby. (That said, Cosette does not wear miniskirts, and Feuilly goes slightly glassy-eyed when he sees Eponine in one, so she isn’t too fussed).

Because Eponine knows she doesn’t exactly scare paint off the walls, either. (She’s apparently pretty enough to snag Feuilly, after all.) Feuilly, gold-skinned and red-haired, dusted with copper freckles, lean and strong from work yet nimble-fingered from art, is a worthy addition to what she has privately dubbed the Les Amis Cabana Boys. She’ll admit to her own attractiveness, if only so she can claim Feuilly as her own. She’s tall, swarthy in the way that could come from a thousand cultures, with a stubborn nose and chin. She’s always been slender, not helped by occasional bouts of near-malnutrition growing up, but it lends itself to bony shoulders and knobby knees. The only physical traits she can unequivocally be proud of are her hair—thick and dark and silky—and her chest. Every boyfriend she’s ever had has told her how much he loves her breasts, and she’s found them to be incredibly effective at getting her what she wants, at least.

After nearly a year of Feuilly greeting her with “hey, beautiful” or going slackjawed when she walks by in a tank top, Eponine knows she’s not ugly. This does not, however, stop her from reacting badly when a photography student asks her to model for his senior portfolio.

(She laughs in his face).

She’s making his drink as she does, though, so he blushes but persists as she ladles foam into a paper cup.

“No, seriously.”

He proceeds to tell her about it, and while at first she’s a captive audience due to her still making his drink, after a few moments she’s intrigued. It’s a basis in folklore, specifically Faerie, and he wants her to model as Mab. He’s about to explain further when she cuts him off—folklore is one of Feuilly’s passions, along with Polish soccer and social justice, and he’s compared her to the Unseelie Queen before.

“Originally referenced in Romeo and Juliet, traditionally considered to be queen of the Unseelie or ‘dark’ Fae, as referenced in Scottish fairy tales,” she rattles off. “Eats men like air.” She grins. Feuilly can be uncommonly poetic when he wants to be, and she’s not sure how he made Sylvia Plath a turn-on but he most certainly did.

The photographer lights up. It’s adorable. “Yes! You’ll do it, then? I can’t pay you, but...” he flushes. “May I can take you out to dinner sometime?” She almost laughs again, before realizing—again—that he’s serious. “Thanks, but no thanks,” she says, gently as possible. And, because she’s a sucker for puppy eyes and it does sound interesting, she finds herself agreeing to the shoot.

The photography student introduces himself as Tristan, and she writes her e-mail address on his cup. She watches him go on his way, a bemused look on her face.

* * *

“Guess what I did today.”

“No. The last time I played that game with a Thénardier, I ended flat on my back,” grouses Feuilly, hands efficient as he flips burgers in the pan. They were supposed to have reservations for their anniversary (two weeks early—November is an oddly busy time for auto shops and coffee joints), but honestly it’s just as well that she’s in one of his wifebeaters and leggings, he in work jeans and a clean T-shirt, as they cook together. It’s enough that Gavroche is at Courfeyrac’s, there are oven fries—one of the few things Eponine can actually cook—baking, and she’s got lacy underwear on under her leggings.

First, though, hamburgers. Feuilly slides them neatly onto a plate, slices tomato, and sets out mustard as the oven dings and Eponine pulls out the pan of fries. The silence between them is companionable, and they seat themselves cross-legged on the floor around Feuilly’s coffee table. Today feels little different from any day, and that’s good, because Eponine is deliriously happy. “I got asked to model for a senior project,” she continues as if she’d never paused, using a fry to mix ketchup and mayonnaise. (She ignores the wrinkling of Feuilly’s nose).

“Oh?” He pauses. “What sort of modeling?” She shoves his knee with an extended foot as he grins into his food.

“ _Fully clothed_ modeling.”

“Just making sure. You know those art majors.”

“You know _one_ , and he’s about as interested in me as Cosette is.”

“Hey! You and Grantaire did make out that one time,” he shoots back, a smile splitting his face to let her know he’s joking.

“We were both drunk and hung up on other people. Not exactly a recipe for fireworks,” she says dryly. She’s still astounded that she can mention Marius without a pang, because she never would have believed she could be so completely over her puppy. She never would have believed that she could have any of this. “But you’re okay with it, then?”

"Of course.” He sets down his burger. “I can’t say I’d be thrilled if you _were_ doing life modeling, but it would be your decision, anyway. I’d never presume to tell you what you can and can’t do, with your body, E. Besides,” he says with more brevity, “your track record with it has been pretty good lately.”

“Glad you think so,” she laughs. “But you’re the only person I’m interested in letting do life drawings of me.”

“It’s a gift,” he replies, and she’s not sure which he’s referring to. “Speaking of gifts, do you want yours now or on our actual anniversary?”

She blinks. “Um.”

“Either’s fine.”

“Now, definitely, then. I was never good at that delayed-gratification stuff, anyway.”

He polishes off his fries and rises. “Stay here,” he orders, unnecessarily. She nods happily, licking salt from her fingers and not missing how his eyes follow her tongue. She hums around her thumb, and he mutters something about sirens before heading for his bedroom.

(To be honest, it’s half hers at this point. Her clothes are in the drawers, her shoes are in the closet, and her various hair products are in the shower stall, much like his work boots nestle into her stilettos at her place and he keeps an extra can of shaving cream next to her sink).

He emerges seemingly empty-handed, smiling in a way that can only be called shy. It’s not a look she’s seen on him often—only once, really. On their first date, nearly a year ago. It’s actually adorable, she thinks, now that she’s not afflicted with the crippling nervousness that she had been then.

“Close your eyes.”

She does, hands open on her crossed knees, and he folds her fingers around a velvet box.

Her eyes shoot open, shocked and wary.

“Gael--“

“Just open it, will you?”

So she obeys, and nearly drops the little box. “ _Gael_.” It’s a sunburst on a thin gold chain, delicate and spiky, surrounding a tiny but luminous moonstone. “It’s…it’s beautiful.”

“You like it, then?” The shyness is still there on his face, but fading.

“I love it.” She wraps a hand around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the fine red-gold hairs there, and pulls him forward. He’s braced on hands, a knee, and one foot, but he lifts one to cradle her face. The kiss is perfect; sweet and gentle, but not lacking in deep, slow heat. “I love you.”

“I love you. So much,” he whispers brokenly. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She makes a noise at that, pulling him closer, if that’s possible. She’s answered by one of his own, deeper and darker, but she pulls away before things can escalate. “Put it on me?”

He seems half-caught between disappointment at her distraction and ecstasy at her reaction, but takes the box back willingly enough. She lifts her hair away from her neck as he swears at the delicate catch, but the gold glows against her light-brown skin, and the pendant falls smoothly just above her breasts. She can feel his warm breath tickling the nape of her neck, and his rough fingertips trace down her arms and encircle her wrists, pulling her back against him. He reluctantly releases one to push all of her hair over one shoulder, alternating kisses and nips along the line of the chain.

“Y-your present i-isn’t done yet,” she rushes out, able to concentrate on little but his hot mouth at her throat.

“You mean, there’s more?” She can hear the smile in his voice, as well as against her skin, and her eyes roll back as he makes up for time spent talking with a more aggressive nip to the join of her shoulder.

“W-well…there is _one_ present for you tonight.” She extricates herself from his embrace, ignoring his groan of protest, and turns until she’s on her knees in front of him. She leans forward until her lips are brushing his ear and whispers, “Musichetta took me lingerie shopping.”

“Oh, _not fair_ …” he groans, and again, louder, as she pulls her wifebeater of her head. “ _Christ_.”

She gets a thrill unlike any she’s ever known, reducing this gorgeous, strong, loyal man to an incoherent mess. She rises to her feet, drawing him with her, and he seals their mouths together attain as she hitches her knees around his hips, and she can feel his hands and forearms flex as they brace her thighs. Her arms lock around his neck, tongues tangling as he moves quickly towards the bedroom.

The living room is left empty, only plates on the coffee table and an unhooked lavender-lace bra what took place.

* * *

As luck would have it, the date Tristan e-mails her is the day before their actual anniversary. Feuilly is pulling a six-to-six, but she has the day off, so she makes him breakfast (that’s interrupted by a makeout session precipitated by her coffee), and sends him on his way full and satisfied, promising to pick her up from the Fine Arts building after work.

She feels very domestic washing dishes after kissing him goodbye at the door, and shoos Gavroche out to the bus, breakfast taco in hand, an hour later.The glow doesn’t go away as she scrubs down the kitchen and takes out the trash, even waving jauntily to Feuilly’s crotchety neighbors who grumble loudly about “living in sin” as she passes by (she’s gotten _this_ close to inviting over Courf and Jehan, the most affectionate couple ever, multiple times for the sole purpose of watching their eyes pop).

Occasionally she’ll brush a hand around her neck or stroke the edges of the pendant, as if to remind herself that it’s still there.

Tristan has told her that someone is lined up to do her makeup, so she simply twists her hair up and wriggles into a pair of jeans instead of her usual morning routine. She catches the bus into the university at eleven, and Tristan waves her into the auditorium half an hour later.

It looks like he’s stolen the entirety of the set and two-thirds of the cast from a production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Tripods and the photography umbrella thingies are everywhere, and several people are moving around the stage, spangled with glitter, holding masks, and dripping gauzy fabric. Her hand is caught by a girl with dyed-purple hair and multiple piercings, and she’s tugged towards a makeshift makeup counter bemusedly, chased by Tristan’s blithe assurance that Tara is good.

The girl (Tara, apparently) is nice enough, and Tristan is right—she’s an absolute whiz with the formidable-looking makeup pallet available. Eponine is ordered to close her eyes and prepare to be amazed, and she does, if with a grain of salt. When she’s instructed to open them, she is amazed. Her eyes are boldly outlined in silver, false lashes carefully applied so she simply looks improbably endowed. Light and shadow expertly contour her sharp cheekbones into something both beautiful and forbidding, and her lips are a cool, dark red. Tara instructs her to leave her hair wild and loose, and hands her a skirt of black-and-silver strips to wear under her black tank top. The girl only stumbles at her necklace, the gold more prominent against the silver-and-black, but Eponine places a hand over the pendant protectively and glowers, and the matter is dropped with a chuckled comment about Tristan’s casting. She is liberally showered with glitter and pronounced ready.

The shoot itself is a bit of a blur, with Eponine originally a bit stiff but loosening up as she’s caught up in the sheer enthusiasm that pervades the place. Tristan clearly loves what he does, and she’s reminded of Grantaire when he draws Enjolras or Feuilly when he talks about gender equality and a better tomorrow—it’s like they are all communing with something sublime, something larger than themselves. Eponine hopes that she can experience the same one day.

Towards the end there are some shots with other people, frolicking as she tosses her hair above them or glares across an expanse at “Oberon”, white-and-gold to her black and silver. The last is her splayed across a gorgeous but surprisingly uncomfortable wooden throne, with Tristan telling jokes to make her laugh. He’s actually very funny, and she spontaneously sprawls across the throne and raises one leg, pointing her toes and stretching like a cat. There’s a flash, Tristan crows, and she catches sight of Feuilly by the stage door, one foot and back pressed against the wall, arms crossed, and a sardonic smile on his face.

She feels her mouth split into a silly grin, and without waiting for permission she bounds to her feet. She crosses to him, feeling light as the fairy she’s dressed as. She’s feeling like everything he’s imagined realized, shadows and light in equal and complementary measure, and she blesses this photographer for his vision. She surprises even herself when she throws her arms around his neck—she is usually neither this demonstrative or this affectionate in public—but he receives it enthusiastically, planting a gentle kiss on her laughing mouth.

“Gael Feuilly,” he says, and Eponine releases him as he steps forward and extends a hand.

“Tristan Phillips,” comes the reply, and the handshake is firm but not crushing. Good. Feuilly considers himself friendly, but he also, between his friends and his job, spends most of his time with alpha males. As such, he’s in the habit of taking exactly zero shit and he likes to win power games before they’re begun, especially around Eponine. It’s possessive and stupid and he knows it, but the instinct is strong enough that he can’t bring himself to stop. Tristan seems fine, though, if his gaze is a bit speculative.

“Hey, Tristan, you get everything?”

“What? Oh, yes,” the man replies. “Thank you, Eponine. That was a true pleasure, to photograph you.”

“Thanks! It was…fun. Much more fun than I’d thought it would be,” she says honestly.

“Maybe we can do it again sometime, then.”

“Sure, if I can find the time.” She doesn’t think Tristan is hitting on her—she’s turned him down once, he’s been friendly but completely professional all day, and Feuilly is literally right there—but she keeps her voice intentionally light anyway.

“Actually,” Tristan pauses. “I know I said I couldn’t pay you, but—“ pauses again. “This will sound stupid, but you two are…very artistic. The chemistry between you is palpable, even from here.” His voice gains confidence. “What I mean to say is, I can’t pay you, but if you’d like I can take a few photos of the two of you. I’ve done a few engagements and anniversaries before, so…if you’d like, I could do that.” He shrugs. “Thought I’d offer.”

She sneaks a glance at Feuilly, whose hands have migrated to his pockets. They have the occasional Facebook photo together, courtesy of Courfeyrac’s obsession with documenting every aspect of his life “for his memoirs”, but most of them are shot in the Musain, her exhausted and he oilstained, or in the dim lighting of whatever bar Bahorel has dragged them to, or shining with sweat and overexposed at a protest.

She _wants_ this, she realizes. She wants a picture of them to set on an end table, some sort of tangible proof that he’s hers and that this is for the long haul. She wants him to be able to pull out his wallet the old-fashioned way and have a photo tucked behind his drivers’ license, one that shows her off to best advantage (as she knows Tristan will), to prove that he’s taken and that she is _beautiful_ , so there’s no use to trying to take him from her. The sunburst about her neck gives off a surge of phantom heat. As she meets Feuilly’s eyes, she can see how much he wants it too.

She grins, mischievous and shy, as she tugs him in front of the camera.

* * *

She doesn’t see Tristan for nearly a month, and she’s starting to wonder if it was all a vivid hallucination. She’s only verified by the glitter she’s still combing out of her hair and Feuilly affirming that she’s a terrifyingly attractive fairy. So when she hears the order for a hazelnut latte, double foam, she’s relieved as she greets the photographer, a manila folder under one arm.

He sips his coffee until she goes on break, then flips the envelope open and spreads out an array of glossy photo paper.

“These are just your photos,” he says, brushing his fingers possessively over them. It’s a father over his babies, and it looks like Grantaire handling his sketchbook or Feuilly ruffling Gavroche’s hair. As he moves his hand, her eyes are drawn to the images themselves. Tristan is still talking, but Eponine is lost.

It’s clearly a selection of the best, because there are no half-shut eyes or unattractively open mouths, but there are a lot of images, which speak to his skill. There’s shots from every angle, though she can’t remember Tristan moving. She can remember Feuilly’s initial stiffness, but he’d fallen under the same spell she had in short order, so that his movement, captured so perfectly by the lens, is free and easy.

He looks _happy_ , she realizes. Not tense or worried, but comfortable and in love. As the thought crosses her mind, her gaze falls on, perhaps, the most risqué of the bunch—though it isn’t at all. They’re just kissing, her fingers curled around his jaw and his big hands set at the curve of her waist, her hair just tickling the backs of his knuckles. She can remember what his thumbs felt like, rubbing through fabric against her skin, and she can feel heat on the back of her neck rise. She looks away hurriedly before Tristan, who’s stopped talking and is now sipping his coffee and watching her reactions with a practiced eye, notices.

One near the end catches her eye, not least because she doesn’t remember it at all. Some of the photos are in color, others in black-and-white; this is the latter. Eponine is leaning over, eyes scrunched shut as she howls with laughter, showing off Tara’s excellent lash application skills. Feuilly’s arms are around her waist, head falling forward and laughing as well. His arms are flexed, and he’s letting out the brilliant, disarming smile that he so rarely bestows upon a world that seems to take a gleeful joy in kicking the shit out of him. He’s always handsome, but this is the first captured moment where she’s seen him without worry or stress leavening the boyishness of his face—turning him from a twenty-something to a grown man, with the weight of the world on him. Eponine has seen how gorgeous Feuilly is when he is joyful; now the rest of the world can see it too.

“Pick any you like,” says Tristan. “I hope you wouldn’t mind me using these-“ he taps one of Feuilly kissing her hand, as well as the first one she’d seen—“in my portfolio?”

“Yes, of course,” she replies, awestruck. “These are beautiful, Tristan. Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he says, fervently. “With the photos I got of you, I have a real chance of getting a job as a freelancer, or for one of the more prestigious photography studios in DC or New York City. You have no idea what you’ve done for me. This is the least I could do, and I’m glad that you like them.”

“I really do. No one’s ever done anything like this for me before, Gael either.”

“Just keep me in mind when you two get married.” Her head shoots up, photos forgotten, and Tristan chuckles. “Eponine, I’ve photographed a lot of people, and a lot of couples. And I’ve never seen anything like you two. As a dispassionate observer, you’re crazy if you let him go,” he finishes, voice wry.

“Not planning on it.” And she’s not. Because Tristan is right; she’d have to be crazy to let Feuilly get away.

“Good. Because I’d hate to see this—“ he gestures to the photographs—“go to waste.” He sips his drink. “See something you like?” he asks, for the second time.

Hesitantly, she selects three. The kissing one, one where her arms wrap around his waist from behind, and the one where they are both laughing, in stark grays.

As she pull the third towards her, a flash of color catches her eye. Gold traces at the image-Eponine’s throat—Feuilly’s anniversary gift, a metallic flash against the black-and-white. Her appreciation for Tristan’s skill goes up another notch.

“Oh, and there’s this.” He slides a crisp envelope across the time. But Madame Hucheloup is sending her a summoning look, and Tristan’s mug is empty, so she simply takes it and tucks the phtos inside, nestling next to the thick paper already there. Tristan bids her a cheerful goodbye and gathers his things, and she returns to work.

It’s only after the end of her shift that she remembers the envelope. She smooths the crisp creases and begins to read the embossed script.

 

_The Amherst University Department of Studio Art_

_Requests the pleasure of your company_

_At the 2012 Winter Exhibit_

There’s more, but she’s moved down to the Featuring section; Tristan’s is third-to-last.

 

_Tristan Phillips, Photography, Class of 2013, “Magh Meall”_

She makes a mental note to ask Madame Hucheloup for time off, carefully replacing the invitation with a painstaking effort to avoid the photo paper already inside, and she stops off at the closest art supply store to buy a frame on her way home.

* * *

(a month later)

“Thank you so much,” the girl squeals as Feuilly wipes his hands an an oil rag.

He closes the hood of the yellow Bug gently, then asks, “are you sure I can’t show you how to do it yourself?” Eponine doesn’t even have her own car, and yet she’d insisted that he show her how to change Bessie’s oil.

The girl shudders, a full-body motion that makes him worry a little about the safety of her modesty considering the combination of her neckline and push-up bra. “Nah. Oil and dirt really isn’t my thing.” She shoots him a flirty glance from underneath lashes caked in mascara. “Besides, why would I do that when such good-looking men will do it for me?”

 _Shit_. He sends her an intentionally awkward smile, because even if he’d been single this girl wouldn’t have been his type. Since he’s not…well, she doesn’t come within shouting distance.

She’s still talking, but he’s only able to catch the last bit. “…seeing anyone?”

“Actually, yeah.” He grins, seeing an opportunity to hit two birds with one stone. Setting down the rag, he digs in his back pocket for his wallet. “Her name’s Eponine. We celebrated our first anniversary about two months ago, and she’s gorgeous—hey, I’ve got a picture…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the fantastic beta of this fic, feebleabp. Go read her "Studies" series, if you haven't already--it's fantastic.


End file.
